Principles of Design
by Instantaneously
Summary: The Principles of Design are Balance, Dominance, Economy, Harmony, Movement, Proportion, and Variety. The following drabbles each embody one of the principles. Arthur/Gerald from The Demon's Lexicon.


**Warnings and Enticements:** Slash, traces of BDSM  
**Disclaimer:** Characters and world belong to Sarah Rees Brennan. Buy The Demon's Lexicon!

**Balance**

New chalk in his pocket, he was hurrying back to an unfinished spell when a fist in his collar yanked him through an open doorway.

Gerald seized Arthur's elbow to keep upright. He swayed and blinked into the shadows, his neck burning. The buising kiss seemed to consume what little breath remained to him. Choking, Gerald tore out of Arthur's grip and fought down his fury. "Heavens to fucking Betsy, some warning next time?"

Arthur's lips quirked oddly—was he trying to pout? He couldn't pull it off—and he curled his hand around Gerald's throat. "Magicians must adapt to the unexpected." His fingers rubbed into the flesh, as if to sooth the ache, but the pressure only intensified the pain.

Disregarding the shifting patterns of bloodflow that hissed to stay, to surrender to the sweet-and-sour caresses, Gerald shook his head and backpedaled to the door. "Not now. Magicians must also remain focused. I've much to do, and I'd hate to fail you by neglecting my duties."

He turned away from Arthur's scowl and fled at a leisurely pace to his workroom.

**Dominance**

"Over the desk," breathed Arthur.

Gerald must not have moved fast enough because a forearm to his spine slammed him onto the glossy wood. The nerve in his elbow stung with the impact. He would count the bruises later.

Heat along the backs of his thighs. A hand wriggled under his hip to grapple with his belt buckle.

Gerald could hear the smile in Arthur's voice. "Clasp your hands behind your neck—yes—and say nothing. Not one word."

Resting his cheek on the wood, he stared at a feathery crack in the veneer. No papers to be seen. Gerald doubted Arthur did much conventional deskwork.

The hand slithered out—his hipbones crashed back to the wood—Gerald hadn't known cloth could scrape so harshly over skin. Cold air from the open window teased the new abrasions on his bare ass.

Two slick fingers were Arthur's cursory nod to Gerald's comfort before he drove the cold away.

This was nice. Gerald didn't have to do any work.

**Economy**

The messenger would be back within ten minutes, but Gerald had already refused too often in the past week. He didn't want to test Arthur's tolerance.

So he fell to his knees on the worn rug as Arthur leaned against the stone wall. Gerald unzipped the fly, Arthur unbuckled the belt and they both tugged Arthur's rigid cock from his pants.

Gripping Arthur's thigh with one hand, Gerald dipped nearer until acidic sweat filled his nostrils, deeper until flesh filled his mouth. Gerald licked a spiral from head to root and back again, then commenced a quick mechanical rhythm. His free hand reached to fondle Arthur's balls, rolled them roughly from fingers to palm, stroked the coarse hair.

A vise gripped his head, Arthur's fingers convulsing around his ears and obscuring the sound of harsh panting. Gerald sucked harder. Arthur's hips bucked, threatening to gag him.

Then, Arthur froze, fists ripping sandy out sandy hairs. He rumbled something unintelligible as Gerald struggled to gulp the flood of bitterness.

Arthur released his hair and Gerald stood. He searched for sticky evidence around his chin while Arthur closed his trousers around his softening cock.

The messenger returned as Gerald wiped the last drops of semen from his lips.

**Harmony**

In the kitchen, worry hung stronger than the smell of bacon. The magicians' faces ran the gamut from edgy to frantic. Gerald rubbed at his eyes. "Did I sleep through an earthquake?"

"Just about," Laura spat. "Rufus criticized Arthur's plans for the next few weeks."

Wispy Imogen covered her face. "Then he blew up at all of us! Shoved Rufus around, damn near threw me into the stove."

Sleepiness evaporated. "Where is he now?"

"His study," said Laura. "I tried checking on him, but I heard crashes, and—"

"Wait here," Gerald barked, and he stalked from the kitchen. As he sprang up the stairs, he undid the top buttons of his shirt; he untucked the hem as he flew down the hall. The study door was unlocked. Gerald slipped through and flipped the latch behind him.

Arthur fumed amidst shattered glass and china, the broken ghosts of small magics fading around him. The set of his jaw promised blizzards and slow deaths, but he held still as Gerald prowled closer, permitted a kiss beneath his ear and caresses across his broad chest.

An hour later, Gerald returned to a kitchen full of awe and admiration. "I just reasoned with him," he said.

Laura had saved him some bacon.

**Movement**

An overeager tumble sent both crashing to the carpet. The ringing in his ears—and being flattened under the larger man—rather killed the mood for Gerald. He tried to squirm away, but Arthur snatched his wrists and pulled until he swayed in Arthur's lap.

Bare skin stuck together. The kisses ran from his lips to his ear, from his throat to his collarbone, from his shoulder to his puckering nipple. The touch sliding down his belly didn't help his dizziness either, but Gerald decided he wasn't so over this after all. Tugging his hands free, he reached to verify that Arthur's mood had not abated either. Teeth on his nipple rewarded his conscientiousness.

But Gerald's knees were cramping in the awkward position. He extricated himself, escaped the hands clutching his ass, and made for the couch.

Three steps later, Arthur surged up and tackled him to the cushions. Fingernails raked his side. Gerald twisted around to lie on his back, ground his lips and cock against Arthur's, and Arthur ground back. He seized Gerald's wrists again and held them against the arm of the couch. Bruises bloomed along the joints. Gerald gasped into Arthur's mouth. He lost himself in the up-and-down friction.

His orgasm was almost a surprise.

**Proportion**

Gerald liked Arthur's bed. The greater span and smoother sheets made a most comfortable backdrop for their acrobatics. Not lingering to enjoy it, he wriggled out from under Arthur's heavy arm—asleep already, the boor—and navigated the tangle of long legs to drop onto the floor. A broad handprint stung on his backside. His biceps remembered clamping fingers.

He glanced back. Even looking down his nose at him, Gerald still saw Black Arthur as an immense presence. The smooth lines of his face, the thundercloud of dark hair, the strong curve of the bare shoulder—Gerald could not deny the exterior's beauty.

It would be so easy to kill him.

Gerald broke away and stooped to gather his clothes from the pile beside the bed. He dragged the t-shirt over his head, pulled up the pants and trousers, then knelt to examine the four anonymous socks. Each was white and cable-knit, somewhat worn and fraying at the heels. Only by stretching them out side-by-side and discovering a few centimeter's difference in length did he identify his own. He yanked them on, his muscles whispering promises of the aches tomorrow held.

He stood again, stepped into his shoes. As he brushed his hair out of his face, he noticed his bangs were getting long.

He left the vast, fragile form on the bed to sleep alone.

**Variety**

After dinner, Gerald followed Arthur's winked command up the stairs. Another appetite wanted satisfaction.

Arthur did not stop at his stairwell, nor at Gerald's. Jumping a few steps to catch up, Gerald hissed, "The attic is much too dusty."

Arthur laughed. "We're not going to the attic." He grabbed Gerald's wrist and pulled him faster.

In the attic, Arthur opened a window and squeezed out, hunching his shoulders to fit through the narrow frame. Gerald clambered after. The ledge protruding two meters around the attic inspired some skepticism. He didn't fancy falling four stories. At least late autumn meant the night was deep enough to shadow their movements from anyone glancing up from the yard below, though the wind had an unpleasant bite. Gerald stifled a sigh and sat down.

Concrete. Lovely.

Arthur, trousers already elsewhere, landed mostly on him. More enthusiastic than efficient, he helped Gerald discard his own as well.

A whirlwind of teeth and tongues and careful fingers. Gerald forgot the cold. Minutes later—too long a wait—Arthur shoved into him. Gerald almost welcomed the concrete against his back, stability beneath the thrust of Arthur's cock into his ass, his tongue into Arthur's mouth.

"Why—" he panted as Arthur nibbled his neck, "—why out here?"

Arthur fit a hand around Gerald's cock and murmured, "Just for fun." He deepened his stroke.

Gerald exhaled a cloud of condensation and heartily approved of this motive.


End file.
